


Earth

by anr



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-10-07
Updated: 2005-10-07
Packaged: 2017-11-18 15:22:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/562520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anr/pseuds/anr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I will hold the balance, when you can't look down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Earth

**Author's Note:**

> Sonography: "Answer" (Sarah McLachlan)
> 
> Betas: mylittleredgirl and daygloparker
> 
> Request: water and a bit of angsting.

_i will be there for you, while you take the time_

  


* * *

  


Compared to Atlantis, the planet is over-populated and polluted; a veritable menagerie of cultures compacted into too small a nation. A fossil-fuel planet, no less, which never used to bother him but does now. Elizabeth calls him a neo-planeteer and smirks so broadly he just knows he's not getting the full joke.

"Whatever," he says, as he reaches for his beer. They've been drinking steadily since they left the base earlier and neither of them can claim sobriety anymore. "Doesn't change the fact home's cleaner." He wrinkles his nose as a group of natives brush by their table. "And smells nicer too."

She laughs and pours herself another drink. "It's not so bad, really. You've just been gone too long," she says.

"From here?" he asks, eyeing the nearby crowds distastefully. "I'd say not long enough by half."

She laughs again and splashes his wrist with wine as glass meets bottle, toasting, "to home?"

"To home," he agrees, and then licks away the alcohol before things can get sticky.

  


* * *

  


They move onto tequila next. Shooters first, then a bottle with two tumblers when their hands shake too much for the shot glasses to hold anything more than a few drops. He watches her throat as she swallows and quickly drains his own glass. Elizabeth slams hers onto the tabletop and wipes her mouth on the back of her hand.

"Old school politics," she says, reaching for the bottle again and running her finger up and down its side. "If you wanna talk with the men, you gotta drink with the men."

He is mesmerised by her finger, and the way it slips on the condensation, but shakes himself enough to agree. "Got my vote."

  


* * *

  


John's never been too concerned with drinking do's and don't's, but even he knows that mixing Guinness with tequila, wine and beer (local up until now) is not a particularly smart idea. His stomach rolls over in agreement.

"To Beckett," says Elizabeth, raising her glass.

"And his mother," adds John, because when you're drinking to absent friends, it's only fair to include the reason for their absence.

She holds her glass up to eye level and tilts her head thoughtfully. "You know, Guinness isn't actually a Scottish drink. It's Irish."

John nods. "Arthur Guinness, born in County Kildare, 1725. He started with ale but turned his focus solely towards porters in 1799."

She arches an eyebrow at his insertion. "1775, Arthur defends his water course at the Brewery -- the use of which is subject to a tax dispute with the Dublin Corporation -- by threatening the sheriff and committee who were sent to cut it off with a pickaxe."

He grins and tips his glass in her direction, happy to accept the challenge. "1815, Guinness reputedly aids the recovery of a cavalry officer wounded at the Battle of Waterloo."

They trade factoids for as long as they can -- which is roughly up until they finish their porters -- and then spend half an hour arguing over what type of vodka they should toast McKay and Zelenka with.

He wins -- Smirnoff -- but he has a feeling it's only 'cause she lets him.

  


* * *

  


"I want to have sex."

He doesn't quite manage a spit-take, but that's probably because he's too drunk for such co-ordination right now. "With me?" he manages after he's caught his breath.

She shrugs. "Well, either you or Jose here," she says, tipping the empty tequila bottle onto its side and rolling it across the table towards him. He stops it from going over the edge with the edge of his Corona and decides not to point out they are merely two of approximately a hundred and fifty people in this bar, at least half of whom would probably pay for such an offer. "But he's not much of a conversationalist, so..." she raises an eyebrow, "interested?"

"Sure," he rolls the bottle back to her, "but it's still your round."

She glares. "You," she states, pushing herself up and leaning, rather unsteadily, across the table, "are no gentlemen."

He taps the rim of his beer against her nose and smiles as sweetly as he can. "Try not to forget the lime this time."

  


* * *

  


John gets her up to dance eventually, not out of any great desire for the activity but because there's only so many syllables he can stomach while inebriated. Not to mention the fact he's a little freaked that she can (correctly) accuse him of antidisestablishmentarism when she's also three sheets in the wind.

They don't move so much as sway and even that's probably an exaggeration. Her arms are around his neck more for balance than anything else, and he can feel her beer bottle against his shoulder blade. He keeps one arm tight around her waist, fingers just low enough on the small of her back to dissuade anybody from thinking about cutting in, and tries to remember to shuffle them back and forth every so often.

"John?"

Her forehead is currently pressed into the curve where his neck meets his shoulder, so he has to duck his head in order to hear her over the music. If he concentrates, he thinks he might be able to smell her shampoo. "Yeah?"

She sighs and links her wrists. "Nothing."

He may be drunk, but he's certainly not stupid. Keeping his head where it is, he wraps his other arm around her. "Okay then."

  


* * *

  


It's raining when they leave the bar, and the water feels cool as it slips down the back of his neck. He tilts his head back and sticks out his tongue to catch the drops and wishes he'd thought to buy a bottle of water before the bar closed. Elizabeth is leaning against him and her head is heavy on his shoulder.

"C'mon," he says, and moves them into the nearest taxi. The driver kinda looks like Ronon, but clips his syllables in a way that is pure Teyla, and John has never felt more homesick in his life.

"Where are you going?" the driver asks again when they don't say anything, and Elizabeth rouses just enough to answer. In Ancient. Rolling his eyes would take too much effort -- as would laughing -- so John simply translates before the driver decides to kick them out and closes his eyes as they start to move.

  


* * *

  


They've been staying on base for most of the past month, but escorting a drunk CO through security checkpoints has never turned out well in the past, and he sees no reason why that would have changed now.

The motel is part of a chain he recalls as being slightly nicer than most. There's only one bed but they've shared worse things over the past three years -- the Eclarian version of chicken pox being pretty damn high on his list -- so, while that's not exactly a ringing endorsement, he's willing to settle if it means sleep.

As soon as they're inside, Elizabeth immediately disappears into the bathroom and, even though she's getting better, even though it's been almost two weeks since she last forgot to stop, John counts to three hundred and then follows.

  


* * *

  


Elizabeth is already under the covers by the time he's finished brushing his teeth and checking the locks, and he has to poke her twice before she shifts enough for him to get in as well.

"One more week," she says when he's settled, and he smiles.

"I can't wait."

She smiles back and reaches up to trail a finger down the side of his face, like she did earlier with the bottle. His breath hitches just a little. "I miss the ocean," she says, not for the first time.

"I miss our people," he says, and she nods.

When she yawns, he pulls her hand away from his face and finds her other one, holding them tightly in the space between their bodies. They're warm, but not enough to worry about, and he lets sleep draw him closer.

"John?"

"Mmm?" He can feel her pulse against his fingertips.

"I didn't get my sex."

He laughs softly. "You can call Jose in the morning," he promises, and she grins.

"Really?"

"Sure." They still have a few days of misbehaving left, after all, before Beckett returns from Scotland and she has to show up for her evals... He closes his eyes. There'll be time enough to worry about those later. "Now go to sleep."

Silence. Then: "John?"

" _Yes_?" he says, but his tone is mostly for show and he kinda likes the way his lips brush against the backs of her fingers when he speaks.

She sighs, and one of her knees slide between his. "Thank you."

He opens his eyes and looks at her, but she's already drifting away and when he says, "you're welcome," it's too soft for her to hear.

He just hopes it's been enough.

  


* * *

  


It's been two months since John found her in the jumper bay with Major Lorne ( _palms flat on his chest_ ) but the memory still manages to catch him off-guard sometimes...

"I'm worried about Elizabeth," says Kate.

... like now. "She's fine." It bothers him a little how automatic that response seems; makes him wonder just how long he's had it waiting. "We're all a little tired right now." Glancing at the clock, he realises it's almost dinner time -- the hours pass so quickly these days -- and pushes away from his desk.

"Colonel --"

He really should lock his office door more. "No."

When he tries to pass, Kate grabs his arm. "She _needs_ a break, John."

"I'll get Teyla to take her to the mainland for a couple of days." He shakes off her touch ( _the major's hand barely flexing beside her knee_ ) and continues towards the door.

"That's not good enough."

"Well, it's the best that I can do." Especially, he reminds himself, when there's nothing to really worry about in the first place. _Everybody's_ a little tired now that the war's over, but things will finish quietening down soon (it's been eight weeks, after all, since the last wraith battle here on Atlantis) and then they can all relax again. It's no big deal.

" _Also_ not good enough," Kate calls out as he leaves his office, but he pretends not to hear her and instead turns on his ear-piece.

"Benson? Put me through to Weir." If Kate won't hear it from him, then she can damn well hear it from Elizabeth herself: she's _fine_.

He listens as it connects ( _"john" she'd breathed out, when she looked up to see him standing there, a horrified expression on his face, "oh god"_ ) and frowns when there's no immediate response.

"Elizabeth?" He taps his ear-piece -- pulls it off briefly to confirm that, yes, it really is on -- and angles the speaker closer to his mouth. "Doctor Weir, please respond."

He knows she's not in her office -- he's already passed there -- so he checks the balcony, and the mess hall, and then heads towards her quarters. If she's not in her room, he thinks, then he'll have her paged on the city-wide.

At her door, he knocks twice -- calls her name again -- and then overrides the door lock on a hunch that he hopes he never has to explain.

"... Elizabeth?"

Still no answer, but he can hear rushing water now, and this feeling he's suddenly got that something's _not_ fine is more or less confirmed by the steam filling her bedroom. Thick, billowing clouds of steam that are making even the windows rain-smeared as it crawls out from under her bathroom door.

His sidearm is in his hand and, while he doesn't remember drawing it, he does know that he'll always remember the sight of Elizabeth at the basin, scrubbing her hands raw.

He moves up behind her and lays his sidearm next to her earpiece before sliding his hands from her elbows to her fingers. He steals the soap from her and turns down the blistering heat and washes her hands so very carefully as the steam continues to curl around them. Afterwards, he dries them too, making sure to run the folded edge of the towel between each finger, just like his mom used to do for him when he was little.

He's leaving when she finally speaks, and he looks back to see her staring at her hands. "It never goes away," she says, turning them palm-up and then palm-down, "does it?"

She sounds far away -- _lost_ \-- and she's looking at her hands like she did after he pulled her away from Lorne that day, the Major's blood clinging to her like a second skin, because all the pressure in the world couldn't help when there were that many wounds...

(He thought she was just _tired_ , damnit. Maybe a little stressed. He figured it was nothing a good day off couldn't fix once they'd finished mopping up after the wraith.)

He's careful to lock her door on his way out.

In the corridor, he taps his ear-piece. "Get me Heightmeyer." There's a pause, and a series of clicks, then:

" _Kate here_."

"Call Caldwell." His palm is still on the sensor pad and, when he pulls it away, his hand is shaking. He makes a fist. "Tell him I need two seats to Earth."

  


* * *

The End

**Author's Note:**

> ORIGINAL URL: <http://anr.livejournal.com/220675.html>


End file.
